


Not the man I thought I was

by immoral_crow



Series: Inception Bingo Fills [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7431013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/pseuds/immoral_crow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows Arthur's been stuck in limbo – but no one is asking him about it. That sounds like a challenge to Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the man I thought I was

**Author's Note:**

> For Inception Bingo, because I am a fool who misses the days when team angst and team romance did battle. This is for the Dub Con square on my card. My grateful thanks to Trojie for her help and cheerleading.

No one ever asks Arthur what happened when he got stuck in Limbo. Everyone knows about it though, of course they do. Dreamshare teams gossip like old ladies at a church coffee morning in Eames’ experience – it’s how he found out that Arthur had had the unfortunate blip in the first place – but no one seems to know any details, and no one is willing to ask. Even the team who were with him are seemingly ignorant, and become tight lipped and wary when Eames makes the mistake of prying too deeply.  
   
Whatever happened, though, it left its mark on Arthur.  
   
Eames takes the first opportunity he can to work with him, and yes. Maybe to the untrained eye – the eye that doesn’t _know_ Arthur – he seems okay, unscathed.  
   
To Eames, who is both highly trained and very knowledgeable about his prey, there are signs that shout what happened in the loudest way.  
   
It’s the way Arthur holds himself when he forgets to maintain his pose – just the briefest seconds when he thinks he’s unobserved, when he’s busy with something else. In those unguarded moments it’s like he’s old and hurting, and even though it passes like the shadow of a cloud in a sunlit wood, it makes Eames grit his teeth and look away. 

It’s a changed appetite that has Arthur putting cream in his coffee, reaching for the pastries that Eames brings the team in the mornings rather than the fruit he specifically chose for Arthur. 

Most tellingly it’s the moment when Arthur holds a door open for him and for the split second before his confusion masks it, there is something warm, almost predatory in his eyes when he looks at Eames. That stops Eames in his tracks. It was less than two months ago they worked their last job together, and Arthur had barely been able to conceal his contempt then.  
   
Or had he? Arthur now is such a different person to who he was then – and Eames is tempted to think that these glimpses he’s getting are something very close to honesty. 

It’s enough to drive Eames mad, enough that when he finds Arthur alone in the warehouse they’re using as a base for the job, plugged into the PASIV and obviously testing _something_ Eames doesn’t hesitate; he plugs himself into Arthur’s dream and goes to find out for himself.

Slipping into a forgery is second nature – hiding in plain sight has always been Eames’ modus operandi – but he tries to choose one of his less used ones, something Arthur won’t be immediately familiar with, to give him a fighting chance. 

He checks out his appearance in a storefront window, allows himself a small smile of satisfaction at the picture he presents, slight, neat, nothing that will standout against the backdrop of Arthur’s projections, and goes to find the man himself. 

It takes him a few horrified seconds to notice that he’s actually _found_ Arthur when he does, because Arthur looks _old_. Not ancient or anything, just – older. Mature. Seasoned, perhaps, Eames thinks, looking at the salt and pepper of Arthur’s hair now, the deep lines that time and experience have marked on his face. 

It wasn’t something he was expecting. Arthur isn’t a forger – has never been a forger. Is basically a sharper suited, cleaner lined copy of his waking persona when he sleeps, and Eames can’t move, is fixed by Arthur’s eyes as he wonders just how long Arthur had been in limbo for – what the hell had happened to him to do _this_. 

Then Arthur smiles, wide and warm, and Eames can move again.  
   
“You haven’t worn her for a while,” Arthur says, walking close, looking at Eames like he’s a piece of art that’s been displayed for appraisal. 

“What?” Eames can’t help it, he’s dumbfounded here. Arthur wasn’t meant to notice him – much less remember the forgery, and in his shock he loses his poise, feels suddenly and horribly vulnerable.

Arthur notices, because he’s the sort of bastard who notices everything, but he chuckles low in his throat and shakes his head. 

“Oh, no,” he says. “It’s charming. I remember when I first saw her. Slovakia, was it? Or Kabul?” Arthur shrugs like the details aren’t important, like the very fact he’s not remembering clearly isn’t a world changing event. “You always look lovely in her.”

There’s something wistful, warm, utterly unfamiliar in his tone and maybe that why Eames freezes again as Arthur reaches out and runs his fingers over the silk of her – of Eames’ hair. 

“Very lovely,” he says again, and then smiles at Eames, warm and intimate. “But I would prefer to see you.”

He’s caught now, and there’s no point in holding onto the forgery, but Eames still feels an unfamiliar urge to hide, even as he shifts form under the weight of Arthur’s gaze and the pressure of his fingers. 

He’s not sure what he expects then; it certainly isn’t for Arthur to lean in and press a kiss to his lips, the scent of his cologne still achingly familiar even on this unfamiliar person. And Eames should step back, should maybe explain why he’s here, but he’s always had a bit of a blind spot when it comes to Arthur, so he doesn’t. He reaches out and cups Arthur’s jaw, pulls him closer, kisses him like he’s desperate for it. 

It doesn’t matter that he shouldn’t be doing this, doesn’t matter that Arthur is older, unfamiliar, all Eames knows is that he feels like he’s found something that he didn’t know he was missing, and he kisses Arthur until he’s breathless and dizzy with it. 

And it feels like each time he opens his eyes, each time he snatches a breath, that Arthur’s looking younger and younger, until by the time they take a shaky step apart, there’s barely a hair’s breadth of difference between Arthur here and Arthur awake.

“You always have this effect on me,” he says, laughing like Eames has never heard him laugh before.

Whoever Arthur’s kissing, Eames realises, it’s not him – not really and the knowledge cuts like a knife even as temptation floods his veins. There’s something about Arthur, though (there’s _always_ something about Arthur) that inspires Eames to want to be a better person than he knows he really is.

“No,” he says, trying to step back, trying to put some distance between them.  “No. You don’t want this, Arthur. I’m not…”

Arthur’s eyes flash dark.

“Really?” he asks, and there is sin in his smile and the devil dancing in his eyes. “This game? Now?” He sighs, remembering something Eames has never done. “We’ve not played this for the longest time.” 

He runs the pads of his fingers gently over the curve of Eames’ cheek and then nods, once, like he does when he’s made a decision that pleases him.

It’s all the warning Eames gets before Arthur’s on him, forcing him to his knees, to the floor with a combination of wiry strength and vicious cunning. 

Eames has wrestled Arthur before, hell, Arthur’s _pinned_ him before, and Eames knows that on the scale Arthur’s used to that he’s not using much force. He’s probably being careful even, careful enough that Eames could get free if he fought for it. 

But Eames is perverse, and knowing he _can_ get free means he no longer feels he has to. Besides there’s something about the way Arthur manhandles him, equal parts confidence and knowledge, and if this is the only time that they do this, Eames is going to damn well enjoy it. 

Arthur seems to feel the moment that the fight goes out of Eames, and he laughs, low in his throat. 

“What?” He leans forward, grazes his teeth against the shell of Eames’ ear. “Not going to fight me off?” He bites, stopping just short of drawing blood before he pulls back. “I forget what a slut you are for me sometimes.” 

“No.” Eames’ voice is more breathy than he intended. “No, Arthur, I…”

“Yeah.” Arthur sounds more amused than anything as he flips Eames over onto his back and undoes his belt with quick, economical movements. “I thought so.”

He sounds confident, but his fingers linger on the waist of Eames’ trousers, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to go further. Maybe Eames should say yes – maybe he should say no, but he thinks that if he says no now that Arthur really will stop… and for the life of him, he can’t say yes. 

Instead he cants his hips upwards, and Arthur swallows as he undoes the trousers, starts to pull them down. He’s as focussed, as intent as Eames has ever seen him on a job, and Eames shivers under the scrutiny. 

Arthur’s eyes immediately snap up to Eames’ face.

“Hey,” Eames says, suddenly desperate to ease the worried lines from Arthur’s forehead but not sure how. “Hey.” 

It’s so little, but whatever Arthur sees is enough to pacify him, and he bends down to kiss Eames. 

It’s easier to let this happen with Arthur kissing him. Eames forgets that he has objections to this, forgets everything but the feeling of Arthur’s mouth on his, loses himself in the closeness, the desire of the moment instead. 

Arthur knows how to push his buttons, he always has, and Eames isn’t sure why he’s surprised that applies here as much as it does anywhere else. He is surprised, though, and he has to breathe through the almost-panic that causes, the fear of his careful compartmentalising crashing down, until he finds calmness again in matching Arthur’s breath, in the feeling of Arthur’s skin against his own. 

Arthur pushes up Eames’ shirt, his fingers cool and careful, stripping the fabric back to expose Eames as he bites at his lips, makes him moan. 

Eames has seen Arthur applying his focus to problems before and he’s using all of that now, taking Eames apart like he intends to solve him. 

It’s only when Eames is fully naked that Arthur pulls back and Eames see he’s still in his suit, his tie, his fucking _jacket_ and Eames feels more exposed, more vulnerable that can be explained by mere nudity. He bucks under Arthur, whines as he feels his erection bounce against his stomach and Arthur smiles down at him, his expression softening. 

“Shhhh,” he says. “Gonna look after you, Eames. Gonna make this so good for you. Trust me.”

The worst fucking thing is that Eames _does_ trust him, and he has no idea when that happened – or why. He chooses not to follow the idea, files it for later, and lies back, groaning, as Arthur starts to bite at his nipples, rolling them between his teeth, sucking like he’s read the fucking manual on how to turn Eames on. 

Maybe he has, Eames thinks as Arthur moves down, starts to bite marks onto the skin next to Eames’ tattoos, like he’s marking Eames as his own. The thought makes Eames moan involuntarily, and for a second he feels the curve of Arthur’s smile against his skin and he’s scared he said that out loud. 

Arthur doesn’t comment, but his fingers are gripping Eames’ thighs like he’s grounding himself as he starts to breathe against Eames’ cock, as he starts nuzzling into the hair at the base. 

It looks _filthy_ – Arthur still pristine in his suit, running his mouth up Eames’ cock, letting it jump and smear pre-come over his cheek. It’s nearly too much, and Eames reaches down, helpless, and runs his hand through Arthur’s hair, messing it up beyond hope of rescue. 

That makes Arthur smile again, his lips curving open over the head of Eames’ cock, and he looks up, meets Eames’ eyes and holds the gaze as he starts to suck. It’s perfect, almost too perfect, and for a second Eames wonders if this is actually Arthur, of this is just some weird projection of his own. 

When Arthur pulls off, Eames swears, a steady, fluent stream of obscenities that has Arthur grinning at him like he’s just won something.

“Patience,” he says, and pulls his tie off, letting it drop in a slither of silk onto the bed next to Eames. 

He strips quickly, no unnecessary movements or flourishes, but it’s still the most erotic thing that Eames has seen – though he’ll admit he’s hardly a dispassionate audience right now. 

“Gonna fuck you so hard you’ll be feeling it for weeks,” Arthur says and reaches for the lube that’s only there because he expects it to be there, and starts to slick his cock up, making filthy, perfect sounds at the feeling of his hand. 

Eames takes the chance to breathe, to try and relax, not sure what Arthur’s going to do now, but Arthur just smiles at him, pulls Eames’ leg up so it’s resting on his shoulder and pushes in, slow and steady, making Eames gasp and writhe under him. 

“Yeah.” There’s a bead of sweat running down the side of Arthur’s face, and Eames wants to push himself up enough to lick it off, but Arthur has him pinned by more than his body right now. “Fuck, Eames. You feel so good like this.”

He’s already got Eames close, and Eames would like to hold back – is desperately trying to hold back – but praise from Arthur undoes him, and he comes, panting, while Arthur fucks him, unrelenting, through it. 

It’s only when he’s come that he looks at Arthur properly, that he sees how careful Arthur’s being, how he’s treating Eames like something precious. It’s something he’s not meant to see – not the him that’s here now, that’s for sure – and he can’t get away, can’t look away, so he pulls Arthur down into a kiss and keeps kissing him, over and over while Arthur moans, while his thrusts get harder and more erratic, while he comes inside Eames. 

Eames expects him to pull away afterwards, but instead Arthur curls himself up against his chest, resting his head so he can hear Eames’ heartbeat. 

“I miss you,” he says in the smallest voice. “I see you every day now, and every day I miss you more.”

“I’m sorry,” Eames says and Arthur snorts, like Eames is apologising for Arthur missing him. 

He’s not, though. Eames can see who is standing in the doorway, can suddenly see what he will look like in forty years – if he gets to live that long. Can see how a life with Arthur will mark him, creasing the corners of his eyes with smiles, thickening his waist through mornings lying in bed with pastries and each other. Softening his edges with contentment, with love.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and Arthur finally looks up.

The gunshot, when it comes, is expected – welcome – and Eames is gone from the warehouse before Arthur wakes from the dream.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Not the Man I Thought I Was](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7669789) by [kansouame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kansouame/pseuds/kansouame)




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